


Don’t fear the reaper

by orphan_account



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: All For The Game - Freeform, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exy, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Song fic, foxhole court - Freeform, i don’t know how to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-01 07:46:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13290321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Neil struggles with all the past lives he’s lead, Andrew is able to help‘The only song I know all the words to is don’t fear the reaper by blue oyster cult but I can never sing along to it. It just reminds me of broken car stereos and things I had to do in order to get a ride.When i think of those moments I know the truth.I am no one’





	Don’t fear the reaper

By the definition of the word I am someone. But by the aching in my heart and the unfamiliar face I see in the mirror I know that I am no one. 

The only song I know all the words to is don’t fear the reaper by blue oyster cult but I can never sing along to it. It just reminds me of broken car stereos and things I had to do in order to get a ride.

When i think of those moments I know the truth.

I am no one.

And yet at the same time I am so many people that it’s impossible to keep track.

I’ve dyed my hair in so many gas station bathrooms that the stench of vomit and mold seem to cling to my skin.

Of all the lives I have lead I’m glad this one lead me to you.

God I’m so glad I can tell you things I haven’t told anyone else in my entire time on this miserable planet . Ive told you of all the friends or aquantainces or enemies I’ve collected with my past lives. I’ve told you how I learned to hot wire a car. I told you the first time I had to kill someone. The first time I looked someone in the he as they died. I told you things I hadn’t told anyone before. And you stayed. 

I’m glad my past lives aren’t secrets with you.

You know about the big ones, lasting months or maybe even a year. At the same time you know of Jerry and Carl who were quick lies told to police officers or curious folk who needed to know if it was morally just to leave a kid who could be in grave need of a little help on the side of the road. Comforting lies. You know about the one who played piano but only very sparingly. You know about the one who had a habit of getting lost in big places and ended up with bruises for it. You know about the one with purple hair which definitely was a mistake. You know every person I have been and every life I have lead.

And god it is scary.

It’s terrifying to think that someone out there knows who I really am and what I’ve done. The fact that with one phone call you could have me thrown in a cell to never see the sun again. The same could be said for an insane asylum but that’s a double edged sword.

You wouldn’t though. Maybe In the beginning you could have, but you didn’t. For that I am eternally grateful. 

The thing about you Andrew is that never in my life has someone shown me as much love as you. Tough love, but love all the same. It burns within me. This desire to give back everything you’ve given me. To cut my connections and dye my hair once more. The fear is ever present and always hungry for attention. This instinct to run when things get scary.

It’s strong.

Strong as billowing gales and waves crashing down on a beach that smells of nothing but flesh and memories. It’s stronger than nearly everything.

The desire to cling to the love I’m being shown feels like nails on my back and a pounding headache. One that sounds like my mother’s warning voice and feels like fists. It’s not right, this isn’t right, you’re not right. 

My mind supplies doubts and unease at every turn. Perhaps in a desperate attempt to go back to the safety of running.

And in these moments when my gaze lingers on the door a little too long (and you notice because of course you fucking notice) that a firm hand will place itself on my neck and whisper to me, “Breathe. You don’t have to run anymore.”

It was easier when the touch would be there to swat hands away and scold me for even thinking about staying. Sinking my roots in and soaking up the rain water.

But slowly you’re replacing my memories with better ones. Seated hands are grounding. Running is a hobby not a requirement for survival. My hair isn’t dyed. I haven’t seen the inside of a gas station in years and when the radio turns to don’t fear the reaper I can mouth along the words. 

My secrets aren’t secrets anymore.

It’s moments like these ones, the little things that burn my chest apart with your gaze and recognition, that let me know I am someone. 

I am not no one.

I am Neil Abram Josten.

I am finally home.


End file.
